To The Passing Of The Nightingale

Where are the songs of spring?

Aye, where are they?

Well, Mr K,

they are harder to find

than they were in your day.

Gone with the nightingale,

Gone with the meadows,

the hedgerows,

the woods,

The habitats lost, 


Destroyed like the food

that people call pests.


Predated by farmers, 

one way or another,

the countryside’s guardians, 

that’s what they say.

The spring singing has ended,

almost over and done.

Aye, you might well ask, Mr K

The singing is not as it was

in your day.


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